Sailor Moon Reflections
by Raziel12
Summary: What do they think of, when no one is watching? What do they dream in the darkness of the night? A glimpse into the hearts of the Senshi. Saturn, Neptune, Mercury, Jupiter, Venus, Pluto, Mars, Uranus, Chibi-Moon and finally Moon up...and an explanation fo
1. Song of Silence, Saturn

Sailor Moon Reflections 01 : Saturn 

She sleeps curled up to her pillow, watched over by a shelf of stuffed animals, their shining eyes illuminated by the gentle moonlight tracing a path through the violet drapes that span her windows. Save for her breath, and the gentle rustle of the wind against the window, it is quiet, so very quiet.

She dreams.

She dreams of a time when the people she now calls mama and papa were not her parents, but her fellows, when it was not love that shone in their eyes, but fear, fear of what she was and what she could do. She does not like this dream, but it is one that comes often. Sometimes she wakes up crying, others not, but she almost always wakes, and she is always sad when she does.

She does not wake this time.

Her next dream is bitter sweet. She feels a kiss against her forehead, smells the faint scent of aftershave as a father she barely remembers, and now will never know, tucks her in for the night. The only other image she has of him, she does not want to remember : his form outlined in flame, the last flickering dregs of madness fading from his eyes along with his life.

She wakes this time.

She sits up in bed, breathing a little faster than usual. She is careful not to cry, although the tears are so close that anything, anything at all might set them free. Then her mama would come, or papa, probably both, and they would hug her and kiss her and make it all better. At least they'd try.

She looks into her mirror.

Through the darkness she sees her reflection. She has dark purple hair and her skin is pale, but its complexion flawless. In the moonlight she is almost beautiful, until she sees her eyes.

She does this every night.

They are old eyes, ancient eyes. They are a dark violet, the shade just before purple fades to black, the colour of the winter sky. She wonders what others see in them. Do they see a sweet innocent young girl, or do they see something else?

She knows what she sees.

The others wonder why she always keeps her distance in a fight. Some of them think her weak, others think her cautious, but none of them are right. Only once before did she get close enough to see it, to see her eyes staring back at her in the eyes of the enemy. Hopefully she will never see them again.

She remembers.

For a moment her enemy had been surprised, and then amused by the little girl with the glaive, and then it had seen her eyes, really seen them and it had understood. In that moment she had struck, her power, the power of death itself, tearing the youma to small, bloody pieces. Then it was gone, scattered on the winds, but still its eyes had remained, burned into her soul, reflecting her own eyes back at her, Death's eyes.

She tries to forget.

She is crying now, because she knows what she is, and what she will do. One day, maybe soon, maybe not, she will end everything. The power will come to her, it will thunder, it will roar, it will scream in her soul, but it will never make a sound. It will be Silence, perfect and complete and it will destroy everything. And worst of all she will love it, the terrible ecstasy of her power, the unbearable beauty of utter desolation.

The doors opens.

"Hotaru, honey, what's wrong?"

She sniffles and tires to turn away but her mama is too strong. A wave of aqua blue hair falls over her as her mama pulls her into a hug. For a moment she fights, then gives in, sobbing and sobbing against her.

"Was it a bad dream?"

She looks up and for a moment she does not see her mama's beautiful ocean blue eyes, or aqua hair, or even her finely fashioned features, or the elegant cut of her nightgown. Instead she sees what she will be. She sees the burnt out skull, the hollow eyes sockets, the rags.

"Hush now," her mama whispers, pulling her so very, very close. "It's all right."

She shakes, trembles and weeps and then pulls away, making sure to keep her eyes shut. "I'm okay, mama," she says. "I'm okay now." She isn't.

Some time later her mama leaves, promises to come back if she needs anything, then is gone, the door closed behind her. Again the room is dark, quiet. The door creaks open a fraction and her other mama appears. She is carrying a walkman in her hands.

"To help you sleep," her other mama says, handing it to her. In the darkness her crimson eyes shine with a light all their own, filled with the fire of eternity.

She turns it on.

The music fills her ears and she closes her eyes. Hopefully this time she will not dream. Will not dream of dead worlds and ruined cities, or a weapon forged of iron that shatters the very fabric of reality.

But just as she starts to drift into sleep she hears it again, softly, just below the music. It is a symphony of nothingness, a rhapsody of quiet, and it is the most wonderful thing she has ever heard.

It is the song of Silence and it plays for her alone.

Author's Notes

This is my first Sailormoon fanfic, but hopefully not my last. I have to admit that I've always had a soft spot for the senshi of Saturn, perhaps because she's been through so much and somehow survived. Her character just so… deep and this was just my take on what she might think of on those long lonely nights when sleep won't come, or won't stay.

Whatever the case, what did you think? Should I quit writing, give up my day job, or what? Heh. Please drop me a line, I live on feedback.

Oh, and by the way, as the title suggests this is part of a series, focusing on each of the senshi in turn.


	2. Shades of Sorrow, Neptune

Sailor Moon Reflections 02 : Neptune 

She always arrives the same way, in a flashy sports car driven by another woman, a woman with short blonde hair and strong blue eyes. They call her the 'painting lady', because that's all she ever does.

Each time it is the same. She gets out of the car, kisses the other woman on the cheek, plucks her paints, a canvas or two and her easel from the car and walks away. The path she takes leads her down from the road, to a small stretch of golden sand by the water.

At first she doesn't do anything. Instead she sits, her dress folded neatly beneath her, watching the waves roll in. Sometimes it is dawn when she comes, other times it is dusk, but never in between. Then she stands, and then, as the sun sets, or as it rises, she starts to paint.

Most of the time she only paints one canvas. Often, by the time she is finished, the canvas is a cornucopia of colour. Strands of fragile gold break across a painted horizon, casting yellow shadows across a pale pink sky, tinged at the edges with cerulean blue, all of it over a stained glass sea, its crystal surface more perfectly transposed by her brush than any camera could ever manage.

Other times she paints the dusk. Indigo, violet and ebony wing their way across a darkening sky, heralding the descent of a dark orange sun, fading, fading, then gone, leaving only a crimson sphere of flame, its fire forever captured in her mind's eye, seared onto her canvas.

But every now and then, so very rarely that only the regulars, the people who jog down past the sea every day, or the old folks who live nearby, ever see it, she paints a second canvas.

She only ever paints four things.

The one she paints most often is a riot of motion. It shows someone with short blonde hair and cobalt eyes as stern as steel, and yet somehow soft, perhaps mellowed by love. The other features are impossible to make out. She paints the woman, and it is a woman, dancing, hands thrown up above her head, slender legs outstretched in the middle of a graceful leap. It looks like the woman is flying, as though the wind has caught her and will never let go. Only the woman, the painter knows how true this is, it makes her smile. It is a happy smile.

Sometimes, when the clouds roll in, and the rain comes only lightly, a gentle drizzle, she paints someone else.

She paints crimson eyes and emerald hair, and face of ageless beauty. Only the eyes are different. They are eyes that have seen too much, eyes that measure time not in years, decades or centuries, but in epochs, in the boundless passage of the ages, year after year, each a single grain of sand on a beach that stretches out into infinity. Again the woman smiles whenever she paints this painting, only this smile isn't a happy one. It hurts.

There are other days too, other days that come most often in autumn, when the wind kicks up and the waves come rolling in and wash against her toes. She loves those days, for she loves the sea.

Once, someone stood over her shoulder as she painted. They saw a beautiful young woman on the canvas, her purple hair reaching down just past her shoulders, violet eyes gleaming with faint amusement, lips curved upward just a little. They also saw a girl standing still as the whole world moved past her, a girl staying silent as the whole world spoke. The woman doesn't smile when she finishes the painting instead she frowns. She sees the sadness behind the girl's smiling eyes and wishes she could make it disappear. She can't.

Then there are the days that come most rarely of all, the days when she can't stop crying, the days when the brush tumbles from her fingers and she gropes for it in the sand. On those days, no one ever tries to look at what she's painting. It wouldn't be right. But if they did what would they see?

They would see two people. A tall young woman, with short blonde hair and cobalt eyes as cold as iron, but filled with loving fire. They would see a woman with aqua hair and eyes a shade somewhere between blue and green. They would see the sea behind them, and the wind brushing against them, and the sun rising in the east, casting a faint golden glow over them.

And between the two of them they would see a little girl, a little girl with cobalt eyes and aqua hair. They would see a little girl with her feet in the sea, the waves lapping gently over her feet, the sand swirling between her toes. They would see the girl's eyes dancing with delight as her she bent down to cup the ocean in her hands, or leapt up to catch the sky itself in her fingers. That's what they would see.

There is always a long silence after she finishes that painting. She sits there, crying silent tears, sobbing quietly, with only the wind to wipe the tears from her cheeks, and the sea to soothe her sorrows.

Eventually a sports car pulls up with a roar that can be heard down the street. That is when she knows it is time to leave. She breathes deeply, and smiles, although it never quite reaches her eyes.

The young woman with short blonde hair kisses her on the lips as she gets into the car. She always asks her what she's drawn. Her answer is always the same. The sun, she says, the sea, and everything below it.

She never tells her the truth, for as much as she loves her, as much as she loves the life they lead, she'll never get what she really wants, because it is the one thing she can never have.

A little girl, a little girl who loves the wind and the waves, a little girl with cobalt eyes and aqua hair.

Author's Note

Yay! I got another one done. Paintings, like stories, say a lot about us. In Neptune's case, I've always wondered why she was so quick to adopt Hotaru. I think it's because deep down, in her heart of hearts, she knows that she'll never have a child, her own child. And I don't think that's the sort of thing you can keep inside, no matter how strong you are.

Anyways, that's another done and as I've said before, I'll say it again : I live for feedback, so drop me a line…

**Cerii-Chan : **I'm glad you liked it ; your review just about made my day. You don't know how much it means to a writer to have their work appreciated. Yay!


	3. Frozen Mirror, Mercury

Sailor Moon Reflections 03 : Mercury 

Her room is neat, not because anyone asks her to keep it clean, but because that's the way she likes it, because that's the way she is. Neat. Everything has a place in her room, and everything has a purpose.

Her bed is a simple thing, because to her a bed is for sleeping in, no more, no less. The only indulgence she allows herself is in its colour. It is blue, her favourite shade, somewhere between cerulean and navy, the colour of the sea, just before dusk.

Her desk is immaculately arranged. Schoolbooks to one side, pens and paper to the other. She keeps her other books, the ones she likes to read downstairs. She had a bookshelf for them once. It broke under the strain of holding them up.

Even her clothes are neat. Her wardrobe is not lacking it is, for want of a better word simple, understated, elegantly unsophisticated. But it is never messy, every blouse, every skirts, every pair of jeans has a place, and nothing is ever amiss.

In fact the only thing in her room that doesn't have a set place, that doesn't get put away at the end of the day is the small trinket sitting on her windowpane. It is a small thing, a quartz crystal, clear, without colour. She moves it each day so that it catches the light, scattering it like a prism, beams of radiance scattered haphazardly through her ordered room.

Every now and then she picks it up. She looks at it, really looks at it. She knows exactly how it was formed, what it is made of, how hard it is, and much it is worth. It is worth in the vicinity of fifty US dollars, but to her its worth so much more. Because sometimes, when she looks, really looks, at the sparkling faces of the crystal, she doesn't see a girl with dark blue hair and bright blue eyes. She sees herself.

She sees a small, frail junior high school student walking briskly down the corridors of her school, ignoring the taunts, the jeers. She's always been smarter than them, probably always will be, but all she's ever wanted, all she's ever needed, was just to fit in.

She sees loneliness.

Other times, and there are other times, she looks into the quartz and she sees that same girl. Only this time she's cringing away from another upraised hand, another angry face. It's not her fault that the numbers make sense, or that words don't get mixed up in her head. But she never says any of that she simply kneels there, huddled by her locker with her eyes closed, hoping, praying that they'll all go away.

She sees a coward.

Sometimes, late at night, when her mother is asleep, and the only sound in the room is the ticking of her clock she'll rise, move to the window and look at the crystal. It catches the moonlight as easily as the sunlight, only now instead of gold, it is silver, silver streaking past her eyes, silver catching the deep blue of her hair and making her reflection in the window nearly beautiful.

It's later now, much later, and she's left for school. She walks down the street, the crystal in her hands, turning it over and over. She looks for someone in the clear, shifting planes of quartz. Most of the time she finds herself, and most of the time she's disappointed,

This day, however, her walk doesn't go as normal. She hears the screams, feels the tingling in the back of her head that means that something is coming. People are running past her, their faces reflected in the crystal's faces, afraid, panicked, weak. She doesn't move, instead she waits, sitting at the bus stop, the crystal in one hand, her eyes looking for something she's not sure she'll ever see.

It comes soon enough, something huge, something with burning red eyes and a mouth full of great dagger teeth. For a moment she is afraid, so hopelessly afraid that the crystal drops from her hands and lands, tinkling lightly as it falls, on the pavement. She looks down, and this time, this time, she doesn't see herself, she's sees something more.

She lifts her hand and whispers. For an instant time stops, and the day fades away, the sun, the sky, the street, all of it is gone. Instead all she can see, all she can feel is blue. Blue as the summer sky, blue as the turbulent sea, blue, blue, blue, wrapping all around her driving everything, the fear, the doubt, the sorrow, washing it all away.

Time starts again.

Everything is different now, everything has changed. The monster roars as it charges, tearing the pavement up. She moves quickly now, without hesitation, without fear. Even so, it manages to just clip her and pain spirals up her leg, as blood, her own, drips onto the ground. The monster smiles, the blood on her leg freezes, turns to ice. She smiles back.

Sometimes she wonders why she does this, why she fights. But as the power wells up inside of her, power enough to drag the very moisture from the air and turn it all to ice, as it builds and builds, screaming, absolutely screaming for release she remembers.

Because as it spills out of her, as the words leave her lips and everything around her freezes in a conflagration of cold, she smiles. Looking down at the small quartz crystal, staring hard into its many faces, she sees, just for a moment, a single fleeting image.

She sees strength.

She sees beauty.

She sees power.

She sees Sailor Mercury.

She sees herself.

Author's Note

Yay! Hmm… that said, I have to say that this one was a lot tougher to write than the previous two. Mercury has always been a deep character, because really, of all of them, she's the least likely, apart from arguably Usagi, that you'd see running around battling evil. You learn a lot about her, but it's only ever at the surface. You learn that she's smart, that she's calm. You don't learn why she fight, you don't learn how she feels about being smart. In fact, now that I think about it, you don't learn that much. Well, she deserves more than that, and hopefully I've managed that.

Well, anyways. What did you think? Drop me a line… I live off feedback hint, hint.

**Inkie : **I'm glad you liked it and it's nice to see that so many people like Saturn too. Stay tuned for more… heh, can you guess who I'm doing next, because I certainly can't ;.

**Armageddonangel :** Thanks for the comment, and I'm happy you enjoyed it. Saturn is by far my favourite of the senshi, so here's hoping I can keep it up when I get to the less popular members ;.


	4. Storm Chaser, Jupiter

Sailor Moon Reflections 04 : Jupiter 

She runs everyday. No exceptions. She runs if it is sunny, she runs if it is cold. Even if it rains, or there is a storm she runs. She needs to.

Today, the skies are overcast. A heavy mantle of wispy grey clouds sits atop the threshold of the sky. Even the horizon is dark, lit occasionally by the distant flash of lightning.

Inside, she goes through the same routine. She dresses swiftly. Her clothing is old, but comfortable. A pair of jogging pants, a little worn, but still soft and smooth on the inside. They whisper softly against her skin with each step that she takes. Next comes the faded sports shirt, not too loose, but nicely fitted. Her socks are old, ratty things, once white but now an odd shade of grey.

Only her shoes are different. They are the latest kind. In them her feet are cushioned, massaged, allowed to breathe. But that's not why she bought them. They are white all over, except for the green symbol on the side. It is abrupt and jagged. It looks like emerald lightning.

On her way out she grabs her keys, tucks them in one pocket and pauses just outside the door. She turns her face to the clouds, and blinks as a drop of water, a small, trivial thing, swirls down from the sky and onto her face. Without a word, she reaches up, wipes the moisture across her cheeks, across her lips, breathes in deep. She smells it, the thick, musty aroma of rain. She starts to run.

Her path is a long one, but the beginning is often the hardest. At the start, before her legs go numb, before her eyes began to water, and she can barely see the road ahead, it hurts. She crosses the road, long legs pumping hard, and tries to ignore the looks that come her way.

Crazy girl, a commuter with an umbrella thinks, just waiting for the rain to really start, she'll catch her death of cold.

Another, more sympathetic person, a housewife, with a bag of shopping in one hand wonders why she's running, why she's running with that look on her face. It is a look that says a thousand things, and nothing all at the same time. It is the look of someone running away.

The rain begins to come down, thick, heavy drops that splatter like so much clear paint on the pavement. It comes down harder, faster, until the pitter-patter of the raindrops on the street is a staccato that turns from a whisper to a roar. And still she runs.

The pain has faded now, the legs, strong as they are, have gone numb. The world fades in and out of existence. A memory comes, they always do when she runs, and she blinks the moisture from her eyes, unsure if the tears belong to her or the clouds.

She remembers another time, another place. The skies were clear then, a pale blue, just shy of azure, with only a few, softly shifting white clouds. She was running then, running away from a thousand tonnes of burning metal, screaming through the sky. Her innocence, her youth, gone, their passage marked by a pile of twisted metal, and scorched earth.

She returns to the present, to a street overrun by miniature rivers, their swift, erratic flow capturing the detritus of an entire city and sweeping it all into the gutter. A hill rises up in the distance, a tall, sloping mass of unforgiving concrete, as grey as the sky above it. She runs.

Another step, another deep, shuddering breath, another memory. She's running away again, running away from the whispers that follow her everywhere she goes. They say she's too tall, too rough, too violent, too much like a boy. She runs and runs and runs, runs till her breath won't come and she crouches by the road, so close to exhaustion that its almost like dying, but it would be a sweet death, for no matter where she runs, or how fast, the voices are still there. They always will be.

She is at the base of the hill now, and it looms above her. For a moment she is tempted to turn around, to give up, and she nearly does. Then in the distance the thunder comes, the booming, blessed thunder. It rolls down from the sky, and rumbles along the street, raging, roaring, shaking the windows, urging her on. She keeps on running.

Through the haze of pain, as the edges of her vision begin to go black, she sees a boy. He is not particularly attractive, but he is not without his charm. She loved him once, or thought she did. She knows better now. She loved an image, a dream of a man who wouldn't care if she was stronger, faster, tougher. She loved a ghost.

Each step is pure pain now, each breath a labour in itself, but still she keeps running. She can't stop, she won't.

Other faces now, other times, her friends, her enemies, her life. She sees them smiling, scowling, screaming laughing and each image, each sound, each memory fills her, drives her, pushes her on.

At last the storm, the real storm, has reached her. It catches her halfway up the hill. The rain sweeps down, brushing everything aside, drenching her hair, her clothes, her soul. Still she runs, and she is close, so very close to the top of the hill.

The pain is overwhelming now. Each wave starts in her feet, rustles up her leg and rattles up her spine. But through the haze of tiredness, through the cramps that flutter through her limbs, her eyes, twin emeralds, never lose their fire.

Each step, each breath, each movement, each desperate gasping effort is accompanied by a memory. She thinks of short blue hair, and bright blue eyes, and a soft shy smile. She imagines long raven locks, and brooding violet eyes. She sees long blonde hair and baby blue eyes, and a white cat with a smirk. And then she dreams, she dreams of a girl as gentle as the wind, but strong as the sea, she dreams of the girl who didn't care that she was rougher, or stronger, or anything else, she dreams of her first real, friend.

She blinks, she is at the top of the hill. She jumps.

For a moment, for a long, endless, deliriously beautiful moment, she is free. The world is beneath her, and the distant clouds, the towers of swirling grey that rise like floating mountains in the sky, are right beside her.

For a moment she isn't running, she is flying. And as she finally begins to fall, as gravity finally catches her, there is a flash. Lightning splits the sky so close to her that every cell in her body, every iota of her being is shaking with the power of it all.

This is why she runs, even if it is raining. Because right here, right now, she isn't wet, she isn't tired, she isn't hurting, she's in the midst of a storm and it is wonderful. She's up there, with the clouds, with the lightning, with the rain.

Riding the thunder.

Author's Notes

Yay! I'll be honest, this one is probably one of my favourite, which is a bit of a surprise, because of all the Inners I've never felt as comfortable with Jupiter's character as the others. She's strong, after all, how else could she have kept on going after her parents died in a plane crash? But at the same time she's very vulnerable. She's always chasing boys, and is surprisingly sensitive when her femininity is questioned. As I said, I've not ever been that at ease with her character, but still, it's a lovely character. I only wish she got more screen / page time.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again : tell me what you think? Love it, hate it? Drop me a line. Remember, feedback makes the world go round….

**MoonPrincess :** Glad to have entertained, it's always nice when someone likes what I do. I do try my best to get into the Senshi's skin… although hopefully I never get stuck there ;;.

**Cerii-chan :** Thanks for the review! I've actually read some of your work, and I really do like what I see. As for your comments, I'll definitely keep those in mind, especially since I have something else planned… muhahahaha.

**Airlady : **I like you, concise and to the point. Look forward to seeing more of you.

**Armaggedonangel :** I'm sorry if I made you sad, but I just think that there is an air of sadness about the senshi sometimes. It's hard to see, sometimes, but I think it's there. And as for them not having children… heh… give science a couple of years… ;;;, gomen for my silliness.


	5. Fleeting Smile, Venus

Sailor Moon Reflections 05 : Venus 

Her smile has been called many things. Beautiful, kind, nice, but the description she loves the best she's only ever hears in her dreams, whispered against her lips amidst a veil of silver hair, a loving smile.

Her usual smile starts at the corners of her lips before moving upwards, to her cheeks which dimple, much to her embarrassment, before her eyes, a perfect baby blue shade, and just the right size for her face, light up. Normally it is talk of boys, or the latest movie, or the newest Sailor V game that makes her smile like this. She smiles often.

There are other smiles though, smiles none of the others have ever seen, smiles she hopes they will never see.

She remembers England.

A little girl slumped against a brick wall, her uniform stained crimson with her own blood. The sound of her breath, a sickly hiss, coming from between swollen lips, her broken ribs like daggers inside her chest. The monster is standing over her, one claw raised high, ready to finish her.

It smiles.

Her hand comes up, the golden chain already forming in the air as she moves just far enough to avoid the monster's strike. The chain wraps around the monster's arm and she pulls. For a moment there is resistance, then swiftly, sweetly, the chain tightens, singing. A cloud of black blood and ichor blossoms upwards and outwards as the monster screams. Another moment later it falls silent. Her chain is around its neck.

She pulls.

Slowly, shakily she stands. Her eyes are hard, cerulean pools of ice. But then, beneath the foul black blood that has begun to dry on her face, beneath the bruises and the pain, beneath it all, the corners of her lips begins to twitch.

She smiles.

In her sleep she smiles. Often it is the usual smile, the one she smiles all the time. Sometimes it isn't, sometimes it's a sad smile.

She dreams that she is a princess, and that it is a thousand years ago. She dreams of vast palaces forged of gleaming marble, spiralling up into the sky. But most of all she dreams, of silver hair and turbulent blue eyes. Those eyes were always so cold to everyone else, hard, unyielding as rock, but to her, they were always kind, gentle.

He had a nice smile too, a loving smile.

In her sleep she smiles, but tears are trickling down her cheeks. She always hates the next part of her dream, the part, which reminds her what happened next.

She remembers the scent of flame, of blood, of a palace and an empire swallowed up by darkness. But most of all she remembers his smile, the cruel sneer on his lips as she'd stumbled backwards, off his sword, a broad crimson plume already staining her uniform. She died with that smile burned into her soul.

A thousand years later they'd met again and she'd hoped, prayed that once, just once he'd look at her like he used to, with turbulent blue eyes and a loving smile.

She got her wish.

He'd looked at her, his gaze burning into her soul. For a moment, just a moment, it was a thousand years ago and she was in his arms. Slowly, so very slowly, his firm lips had curved upwards, and from beneath his veil of silver hair, his eyes had shone.

I love you.

Then he was gone, his ashes scattered, borne away by a harsh unforgiving breeze. And all she had left was a ghost of a smile.

When she wakes she brings a hand to her face. She traces the path of her tears, the faintest hint of moisture still lingering on her skin. Something soft and warm brushes past her, her cat, and she pulls him tightly into her arms.

He is small, but she buries her face in his fur. She wishes she could cry, but the tears won't come, they never do. So instead she whispers, murmurs, whimpers a hundred wordless, inarticulate pleas for forgiveness, for the chance to make things right. The cat's little body trembles, and he weeps, weeps enough for both of them.

Slowly, too slowly, she stops. Gently, she reaches for her comb, for the brush she keeps by her bedside. Then, in the still, silent darkness, she begins to brush her hair. Her cat looks up at her, wondering, hoping that she is all right.

She looks down at him.

She smiles.

Only it doesn't reach her eyes.

Author's Note

Yay! Well… forget about Mercury being tough to write… Venus was an absolute killer to do. But why, exactly, was that? On one hand, I have to admit, Venus isn't my favourite Sailor Senshi. Don't get me wrong, she's cool, what with the golden chain and the crystal sword, but in terms of character development, I think she gets ripped off. On the other hand, I think she's also one of the most interesting characters, especially amongst the Inner Senshi. I've always though that with her early awakening, and her time in England, that she remembers more than the others, though I don't think she'd ever admit it, and surely that knowledge must weigh heavily upon her, especially when it comes to the Generals. Oh, and for anyone who didn't figure it out, the guy in the story is Kunzite / Malachite, depending on where you're from, and yes, I do believe that the manga tends to pair the two of them together. If you disagree, please don't shoot me.

All that aside, may I now remind you about feedback… I live off the stuff! Good or bad, tell me what you think, you won't regret it ;;.

**To My Reviewers :** Errr… I realised today that replying to all of you would probably just about double the length of the story, which sadly isn't practical. However I would like to thank all of you for taking the time to review, words cannot describe how great you guys are. Once again, gomen to everybody expecting a personal response… it's just getting out of hand… gomen.

And by the way, with the dwindling number of Senshi remaining, who thinks they can guess the next one? Till later then, and thanks, once again, to all my reviewers.


	6. Blossoming Star, Pluto

Sailor Moon Reflections 06 : Pluto 

It is well past dusk, and she sits slowly on the park bench, her emerald hair swaying in the warm spring breeze. She comes here as often as she can. She watches the people ambling past, or the cars driving by. She watches, and she waits until at last everyone is gone, and the park's light shut off, one by one, and everything is dark. Then she turns her eyes to the sky, to the stars.

She is always alone.

Today, the cherry blossoms are blooming. Small, fragile petals, fragments of white and pink wander downwards from the trees, coming to rest lightly in her hair. Laughing, her daughter reaches up, cups a petal in her small, pale hands and flings it high into the air.

Today she is not alone.

She watches the petal as it spins, end over end, through the air. Her daughter watches it too, her violet eyes capturing every nuance, every moment of its flight. Slowly, the petal comes to a rest, pausing, halting for a single instant in time, before it begins to fall. Her daughter sighs with disappointment.

Her daughter leans against her, a small, but somehow heavy weight, her arms wrapped around her waist, head buried in her hair. She reaches down, runs her hand through short purple locks, and closes her eyes. Why, her daughter wonders, can't the blossoms be like this forever, always blooming, always beautiful.

She smiles, a sad, simple smile. For her they are,

Another petal falls, and she reaches up and catches it. There is something in its form, something in the gently sloping lines, in the wax and wane of each curve. It is beauty, it is truth, it is everything and nothing all at once.

She blinks.

In the span of a heartbeat, the petal is gone. Its edges crinkle, blacken, crumple and it turns to dust, drifting away on the next breeze. In her arms, her daughter's form quivers, shifting, thinning, collapsing in on itself and she looks down. Her daughter's face is gone, only a skull remains, and in another heartbeat that too is gone, swept away, forever.

She blinks.

Her daughter looks up at her, concern in her ancient violet eyes. Perhaps she knows, perhaps she understands. Another wind rustles past, and suddenly the park's lights are dimming, one by one, until none remain. And still, there they sit, alone in the dark, the cherry blossoms tumbling past, flickering ghosts in the shadows.

She looks up.

The stars are beautiful. Amidst the vast, boundless mantle of darkness that sits astride the shoulders of the sky, they glitter like little jewels, spinning through the night. She should speak now, should say something wise.

She says nothing.

She could speak of how the stars are born. Of the shining, swirling disk of hydrogen gas, a trillion, trillion tons of superheated matter rushing inwards lighting the fire of a nuclear furnace that will burn almost forever. She could say that.

Her daughter's lips move, murmuring a question.

Should she answer? Should she tell her how the stars she loves, the glittering shards of light so bright in the sky are already dead? How everything she sees, every scrap of light, every faint twinkle is nothing more than a shadow, the final, distant death cry of a star that has already died.

She pulls her daughter closer, never wanting to let go.

Should she tell her daughter, that they are all like stars to her? That when she looks at them, really looks, she knows that what she sees will soon be gone? That despite everything, their powers, their strengths, their virtues, in the end they are nothing more than sculptures of stardust, built of the bones of a long dead star.

Her daughter stands, walks away, laughs, and spins, hurtling through the dark.

Around her, the city falls away. She sees the towering pillars of steel and glass, tremble and fall, reduced to rust and ash in the blink of an eye. She sees the trees wither and die, and she sees a dancing child turned to nothing more than stardust and memories.

Her daughter stops, her chest heaving, eyes delighted, a smiled already on her face and for a moment she feels old, so very old. Her eyes flutter shut, she doesn't want her daughter to see them. They are old eyes, eyes that see past the veil of future, past and present. Eyes that measure time not in mortal seconds, years or centuries, but in the rise and fall of ages, in the innumerable moments in an epoch, an aeon, an era.

They are eyes that know the meaning of eternity.

When her eyes open, her daughter is further off. She is running down the path, her laughter drifting back, trailing a halo of cherry blossoms and purple hair behind her.

She waits.

The park fades away, its dark, mournful colours replaced by a million swirling vortices. Space and time fragment, shatter, reform and bend to her will. She is everywhere and nowhere at once, she is past, present, future, she is there, at the Gates.

Images, instants, moments in time, fleeting, disparate destines, the locked doors of fate, all of them rush past her, dragging behind them a crackling wake of roaring temporal thunder. But she stands firm, and a staff appears in her hands. At once the stream parts, and the very fabric of time shudders beneath the strength of her power. Doors of possibility, of chance and probability, are flung open, torn off their hinges by the ultimate key.

For a moment, just a moment, she is time.

Then suddenly it is gone, all of it, and she is back in the park, back with her daughter. She hugs her close, breathes in the scent of her hair, and the slightly muskier aroma of her sweat. She never wants to let her go, ever.

Her daughter pulls away, and grins, tugging her to her feet. It is time to go home.

As they walk home, through the darkness, along the blossom-strewn path, she wonders. She wonders how long it will be before all that she loves is dust, once more. She wonders how long a kingdom not yet born, but forged of crystal can last, before the impossible weight of destiny finally escapes her grasp and brings it all tumbling down.

And then she wonders how long it will be before the memories fade, scattered on the winds of time. How many years, months, weeks, days, hours, minutes, seconds will pass before everything is gone? Before even this precious contact, this tenebrous brush of soft purple hair against her hips is forgotten.

Instinctively, she pulls her daughter closer. But she knows, deep down inside, she knows. Nothing lasts forever, not even this. Nothing is eternal.

Except her loneliness.

Author's Note

Yay! This one came out fast, didn't it? Truth be told, the last chapter was a battle between Venus and Pluto ( heh, we all know who would win that, and no, I am not not going to say, I'm not suicidal ). Frankly speaking, Pluto rocks. Behind Saturn, she is my favourite of the Outer Senshi. That aside, she's also tricky, because in the manga she can come off really stand offish, and quite calculating, and the anime is generally much worse. I still scream every time I hear her voice in English… Whatever the case, I'll let you make of this what you will, but for all those who didn't pick it up, yes, Hotarus is the other character.

And as I've said before… I live off feedback, heck if I could eat the stuff, I would… so drop me a line, good, bad? Say something ;;.

**To My Reviewers :** Okay, here goes. First of all, a cookie goes to Armaggedonangel for guessing ( sort of ) Pluto. To both Armaggedonangel and especially Cerii-Chan, thanks for the feedback. At the moment, I'm simply writing this one on the fly, meaning I go to my computer sit there and do the whole thing, all in one sitting. In my case, I just can't go back and revise, not without a few days in between, but really, I love writing so much that when I do revise, it will be at the end, when I've finished everything ;. Having said that, thanks to everyone else who's reviewed, and don't worry, if I haven't gotten to your favourite scout I will soon… probably. Till later, take care.


	7. Author's Note

Author's Note

Heh… I'm sure you're all wondering what's happened… and in that respect I have so nice news and some not so nice news…

I do not have writer's block, certainly I know where to go with the next part but I'm not able to write them at the moment because…

I broke my right hand.

Yes, that's right, pardon the pun, I broke my right hand. How, you might ask? Well… let's just say even if you've done martial arts for fourteen years, you're not invincible. Breaking things is great fun, except sometimes they break you back.

For the more medically inclined, I have what is known as a 'boxer's fracture', which means that I've busted my fifth metacarpal… urghh… not my finest moment.

However, do not fear, as soon as I sort out all my essentials in life, like learning to eat left handed, I'll be jumping right back into the fic… or until I learn to type at decent speed left handed.

Till later then… and don't worry… I will finish this, even if it means interrogating my siblings and dictating… heh.


	8. Wounded Flame, Mars

Sailor Moon Reflections 07 : Mars 

She whispers the word, barely audible over the faint hum of medical equipment. She relishes the two soft, bittersweet syllables, lets them glide smoothly to the edge of her tongue.

"Mother."

Memories stumble past : the feel of long, smooth, raven dark hair, and moist, gentle kisses pressed to her forehead and cheeks. Eyes, a little darker than her own, crimson-violet pair, the shade of red wine, perfectly aged.

But it is her mother's voice that she remembers best. With her, it was always so kind, so loving, a measured, melodic singsong trickle of sound, delivered with the playful cadence that only mother's have. How many times had that voice been her candle in the dark, soothing her, calming her sobs when the thunder came down so loud that the whole house and her small, little body shook.

It had been different with her father. Huskier, each syllable drawn out just enough, the lips curved upwards just so. Passion, she knew now, that was what had been in her mother's voice back then. Passion in the hurried, frantic moments in the kitchen, passion in the too short, but frequent calls that came when her father was away on business.

Passion, like gentleness, had come so easily to her mother. Like light and warmth to a fire.

That was why it had hurt so much to see her in the end. To see her tied down by all the wires, the tubes, the bandages. To hear that sweet, beautiful voice reduced to a ghoulish rasp by the tube the doctor's had stuck down her throat, the fire growing just a little fainter each day, weaker, softer, colder…

Gone.

And that was why it hurt so much to see someone else she loved lying in another hospital bed, with another tube down her throat to help her breathe.

They had been careless. No, she thought fiercely, she had been careless. They'd been fighting for a team for so long that they'd fallen into a steady, predictable pattern. And her friend, her Princess had paid the price.

The monster had been an ugly thing, a demented fusion of rusted steel and old, dead flesh. They had arrived all at once, the night lit by the multicoloured radiance of their power, their lithe graceful forms crackling with energy. Only it hadn't gone for them. Instead it had attacked the one person who had always been just a little bit slower, just a little less agile.

Her Princess, her friend, her very reason for fighting, had screamed once. Short, sharp and so very, very frightened. It had come at her with its long, impossibly sharp arms, and she scrambled backwards just far enough to dodge the first slash. But she couldn't dodge the next one, or the next.

The next few seconds are still a blur. She remembers that thing standing over her friend, its eyes glowing like twin stars, its entire, enormous bulk driving forward, its arms stained crimson.

She'd moved then, without thought, without effort, faster than she imagined possible, putting herself between it and her friend. Its arm went right through her shoulder, past the enchanted cloth, past the flesh and bone and deep into the concrete behind her.

For a moment, just a moment the pain swept her up and near to darkness before she felt something else. It was fury, a hot molten rage that came from deep inside, that burned away all her doubt, all her suffering and left behind a tempestuous, volcanic anger.

She burned.

One hand whipped up and caught the monster's metal arm. Scarlet streaked down the length of the slender blade-like arm, pouring from her palm as the blade parted skin and cut deep into the flesh. The monster laughed.

She screamed.

Only it wasn't pain she felt, but power. The blood began to bubble, then boil as the arm glowed first red, then orange, then white. Fire, hot enough to sear the very heart of the sun, rollicked up her arm and everything it touched simply boiled away.

The monster screamed.

First its arm went, disintegrating in a matter of moments before its entire body came apart. Its flesh went up in flames as the metal sublimated, silver fumes mingling with ash as a fiery wind rippled past.

"What happened…"

The words yanked her back to the present, and she practically leapt out of her chair.

"I let you down again, didn't I?"

She blinked back tears and shook her head.

Her friend's eyes widened with concern, spotting the crimson stain that marred the left shoulder of her blouse. "You're hurt."

Her shoulders quivered. Her voice, she'd been so afraid she'd never hear it again. It was soft, it was gentle and it was so very, very filled with love. How many times had that voice been her guiding light? How many times had it teased her, comforted her, tempered her anger, nourished her compassion, loved her?

"You got that because of me didn't you?"

She shook her head again. It hurt so much to see her like this, to see those unfathomable blue eyes crinkled with pain, to see the wires hooked up to all those machines, because she hadn't been there for her, because she hadn't been fast enough, or tough enough to protect her.

"I guess I owe you one," her friend grinned as best she could. "How can I make it up to you?

There were many things she wanted to say. Be my friend, my closest, dearest friend. Call me names, tease me, borrow my manga, and never give it back. Because you don't need to make it up to me, because you make everything all right every time you smile, every time you stick your tongue out at me and laugh.

"Come on," her friend persists. "I'll do anything."

Anything? Then promise that you'll never get hurt again, promise that you'll always be there for me. Promise, that you'll always be like you are now, like a flame, whimsical and wild, but so very warm all at the same time. Promise that you'll never let the fire inside you die. Promise that you'll love me.

But she doesn't say any of these things. Instead she simply smiles, letting her eyes say what her lips cannot, and whispers in her ear.

"Just live, my Princess, just live."

Author's Note

Yay! I've managed to get another one out. Now, let me start off by saying that Mars is a very interesting character, but so much of who she is, so much of what she does is bound up with Moon. That said, a lot of how she acts, I think, is influenced by what happened to her mother ( which is never fully explained ), and this is just my take on how the two mesh. Certainly, I hope I captured some of what makes her tick. Finally, on the subjects of Rei / Usagi. I shall remain silent, as that really is up to the reader.

As always, remember, I live for feedback. So drop me a line and tell me what you think, good, bad, whatever ;;.

**To All Reviewers : **Thanks a ton for your support, it means the world to me. And Cerii-Chan, I actually broke the board with the strike that broke my hand… then used that hand to break another board… errr…


	9. Turbulent Gale, Uranus

Sailor Moon Reflections 08 : Uranus 

She sits on the roof, her short blonde hair ruffled by the soft, sweeping caress of a cool spring breeze. Save for the quicksilver radiance of the moon, she sits in darkness, content to listen as the wind brings whispers of the world to her ears.

She thinks.

A noise comes from the edge of the roof, and she turns, startled. For a moment she sees nothing until, from the inky shadows, emerge a pair of eyes. They are old eyes, beautiful eyes, just a shade shy of violet. They are her daughter's eyes.

"Papa!"

She smiles, takes her daughter by the arm and sits with her, their feet dangling over the edge of the roof. A crisp wind rustles past, bearing the stale scent of the city, and she tugs her jacket off, draping it around her daughter's slender, almost fragile frame.

"We should go downstairs, papa," her daughter whispers, burrowing into the reassuring warmth of her side. "The others are all waiting for you."

She says nothing, merely nods, staring off into the distance. She closes her eyes as another wind comes, a breeze of memories borne aloft on silent, ethereal wings.

She remembers.

She remembers another time, another girl, another rooftop, another life. She is five years old and her father is sitting beside her. He is a tall man, but whipcord lean, and he smells of sweat and motor oil. They are watching the street below, and he is pointing out the cars, telling her everything he knows.

Later, and she always loves this part the best, they go down to his garage. He takes out his tools, shows them to her one by one, let's her run her hands over the cool, sleek metal. Later still, she sits beside him as he works, hunched beneath the lifeless bulk of a car, handing him the tools. The tools are heavy, and it is tiring, dirty work. Soon her arms ache and her hands are stained with soot. But the car is alive, its engine purring, roaring its power to the world. She loves these moments, loves him, more than anything in the world.

She's daddy's little girl.

She was seven years old when her mother realised she didn't like to wear dresses. They just got in the way. It was easier in pants, to crawl beneath the cars beside her father, to learn with her hands the supple but stern feel of a car's metal innards.

They were together on the roof again, the day she won her first race. She was nine years old and the fastest girl in school. Pressed against his side, her nostrils filled with the comforting scent of petrol and grease, she tells him everything. How the wind whispers in her ear when she runs, how it rushes past her, swift and beautiful, perfect in its wild, whimsical freedom.

Another two years pass and she's up on the roof again. Her father is beside her, one arm draped gently around her shoulders, whispering softly in her ear. But she doesn't hear his words, all she hears is her mother yelling at her. So what if she wanted to do karate? So what if she didn't like dresses or tea ceremonies or any of that? So what if she liked cars and sports instead?

Her father holds her, he understands, she just knows he does. For a long time they sit up there, just her father and her, bound by the black smudges on their over alls, and the scent of motor oil, heavy in the air.

She'll always be daddy's little girl.

Five more years go by in the blink of an eye. They are back on the roof, only the wind is harsher now. Things have changed. A storm is brewing, and the air is heavy with unspoken thunder.

Blood trickles from her broken lip, and all she can do is watch him, watch his hands. Those hands, the same hands that taught her everything she knows about cars, that guided the wheel the first few frightened times she drove, that copied, however clumsily, her grace on the piano or the power of her punches, are stained with her blood.

Slowly, he turns and she sees that he is crying. The tears are coursing down his cheeks, a river of salty moisture that carves a path through the soot that always seems to find its way onto his face. She is why he is crying.

All those years, all those hours spent together and he never understood. It didn't matter to him that she wasn't the proper little girl that her mother wanted, that she loved cars and the heady scent of machinery more than dolls or dresses. It didn't matter that she always hung out with the boys. Inside she had always been his little girl, daddy's little princess. But daddy's little princess, daddy's little girl wasn't supposed to like other girls.

"Please…" she says, and she's not even sure what she's asking for.

He just looks at her then at his hands, and for the first time the scent of the garage makes her sick, makes her dizzy.

"Go…" he whispers, his voice so soft that the steady hum of the street below almost drowns him out.

"Papa…" she begins, and now she crying too. "Papa please…" And her eyes, her eyes are begging him to understand, begging him to see that all her life, everything she's ever done, she's done because of him, because all her life she's had his love and all her life all she ever wanted to be was him.

"Just go." His voice is raw, like a broken machine. "Go."

And above them, the storm breaks, and drops of rain begin to fall. The sky is crying.

"Papa."

She blinks, her eyes slowly refocusing on the small, purple-haired bundle beside her.

"We really should go inside."

Suddenly she can't stand to be on the roof a moment longer. The smell of the street wafts up, choking her, boxing her in. She has to get away, has to be free, like the wind. As they get off the roof, a single tear slips down her cheek. The wind catches it, and spreads her grief to every corner of the sky.

Later, much later, she is moving through the house, checking to see that all the windows are locked. The others have gone home, and her family is asleep. She alone is awake. As she moves through the dining room and the kitchen, she sighs.

Soon, she is upstairs, and she pauses at her daughter's room. Her daughter is old enough now, to want her privacy, to want her own, special place. After all, every princess needs a kingdom. But still, she likes to look in on her, to let her eyes wander over that gentle, gentle face.

Inside her daughter's room she finds herself in a forest of violet, so vividly purple that he she can't help but chuckle. Her eyes grow tender though, as she watches her daughter sleeping, shivering beneath the blankets.

She closes the open window, and pauses for a moment at her daughter's bedside. Her daughter's face is so serene when she is awake, that the sorrow on it now it almost painful to see. Whispering a word of comfort, she plants a soft kiss to the sleeping child's forehead. She leaves.

Outside, she sags against the wall. She knows what her daughter dreams of, or at least she thinks she does. She has dreams like that too, sometimes, of the wind, of the screaming song of a gale as it rips through steel and flesh. She hopes her daughter has kinder dreams as well, like the ones she has, sometimes, of flying, of drifting through the clouds, a mantle of winds wrapped tightly around her.

The last room she enters is her own, or rather the one she shares. As always she pauses at the door, drinking in the slender, graceful beauty of her love. Long aqua coloured hair and eyes the colour of the sea. Wordlessly she slips in beside her.

She sleeps then she dreams, and the dreams she has are not pleasant.

She dreams of other rooftops, of nights spent fighting, her own blood all over her, her breath coming in short, terrified gasps as she fights and fights and fights. Worse still is the part of the dream where she sees the others fall. Where she sees the light in their eyes die, when she feels her love's last breath against her cheek, or sees her daughter caught in the impossible ecstasy of her terrible power. Not all of it is imagined.

She wakes, as she always does, cold and afraid and wonders, wonders who she is. Is she her daddy's little girl, or the proper princess her mother always wanted her to be? Is she still the same woman who fought, tooth and nail, for respect on the racing circuit, who earned with blood and skill and sorrow, the admiration of those who despised her?

The woman in her arms stirs and she holds her tight, so tight that she is almost afraid she'll crush her. Is she something else? A warrior, a soldier for truth and love and all the other ideals her Princess still believes in? And if she is, why can't she just believe, like they do, that somehow, someway, everything will be all right?

Something cold and sharp brushes past her. The window in her room is open. She rises to close it, but stops as the door creaks open. Her daughter is standing there.

"Papa…"

The wind whispers through the window again and she turns, only to find herself reflected in the mirror by the bed, her face dimly illuminated by the light spilling through the door.

"Papa," her daughter says as she comes towards her. "I heard you…"

But her eyes are on the mirror. In it she sees herself. She sees cobalt blue eyes, no longer stern, but soft, tempered by love. She sees her love sitting up, her own, eyes, the colour of a turbulent sea filled with compassion, and she sees her daughter coming up behind her, wrapping her small, small arms around her waist.

"I heard you crying, papa," her daughter whispers.

And then she realises something she's known all along. She isn't her daddy's little girl, or the feminine princess her mother always wished she was. She isn't a driver, or a warrior, or anything else.

She's just herself.

But curled up against her love, with her daughter's arms around her, somehow, somehow, that's enough.

It will always be enough.

Author's Note

Yay! Finally, got another one done. Well, let me get the ball rolling by saying, up front, that this one is a lot longer than the others. Now before any of you shoot me and wonder why, it's not because I like Uranus more than the others, though she is awfully cool. The reason is, we never learn much about her family or about why she acts like she does, hence my creation of her father. But most of all, she's definitely one of the most complex scouts, because most of the time she's so strong, and yet, beneath all of that she can be fragile, she can be gentle, and that's what makes her special. So yeah, that's why I ended up writing so much, because really, more than the others, she needed a longer piece, one which really explored her character, which, hopefully I did.

As always, let me remind you, I live off feedback. So please, drop me a line and tell me what you think, good, bad, or just plain whatever ;.

**To All Reviewers : **Once again, let me express my sincere thanks. Knowing that you guys are actually enjoying this makes my day. As for my hand, it is getting better, and the swelling has gone down… so… care to guess who's next, you might be surprised… or you might not…


	10. Grieving Traveller, ChibiMoon

Sailor Moon Reflections 09 : Chibi Moon 

She's at the arcade, watching her mother stuff her face. It's comical really, the sight of her mother, a short blonde with almost impossible hair, cramming more ice cream into her mouth than should be humanly possible. Yet there is something oddly comforting about it, something strangely normal.

She sighs.

The others are there too, and they're all sitting at the same table. Beside her, quiet as usual, but comforting nonetheless, sits her best friend. She's lavender and violet, and gentle, sombre eyes. She might not speak much, but her silence says a lot. It asks her why her smile never reaches her eyes, or the corners of her lips.

She never says a word back. Her own silence, well, it says enough.

She laughs half-heartedly at some, off the cuff joke, but her smile, for once is real. It is nice, she thinks, that they are friends. Not guardians, princesses or soldiers. Just friends, real friends, the kind she's always wanted, the kind she'll always want. The kind she never has back home.

The conversation drifts, rolling along in a gentle mist of words and looks, traded over cups of coffee or glasses of soft drink. Eventually it turns to the future and she cringes. They all look to her, smiling, asking her if she could tell them just a little bit about the future. Not enough to change it, of course, but just enough to let them know.

Only two them don't ask, one because she knows, and the other because she doesn't want to know. Violet and crimson, burned into her soul.

Should she tell them, she wonders, how it all ends up?

Should she tell the priestess that her love is pointless? That a thousand years from now her mother and her father will still be in love, and she, the priestess will never be more than a friend. That one day that fire inside of her will die, leaving only the ashes of regret, and smouldering sorrow as darkly beautiful as an obsidian star.

She looks out the window.

It is raining softly, little more than a drizzle to be honest. She spots a pair of emerald eyes looking past the window, past the buildings and the people, and to the clouds beyond. She can see the thunder in those eyes, the strength.

Which is why she'll never say a word about the storm that she screamed into being, a storm that threatened to tear down the very parapets of Crystal Tokyo. A thousand years of training will be enough to master the ebb and flow of nature, to bend the warp and weft of seasons to her will. But it will not be enough to overcome death. Instead she will remain forever young, a spring blossom, chained to youth as her love passes slowly but surely from autumn to winter, his life fading away, a rose no longer in bloom.

She shivers.

It is cool inside the arcade, almost cold, a result of a number of factors, the storm, the broken air conditioning, the fact that it is winter. Across from her, a blue haired girl sits. She isn't shivering, she doesn't even look cold instead her cheeks are flushed, warm.

But that warmth won't last forever. Little by little the warmth will leave her, stolen bit by bit by countless small sorrows until only the ice, the frost of winter remains. And then, when the flush in her cheeks is only a memory, when she can't even remember the last time she smiled, only logic, cold and cruel will remain.

But perhaps, perhaps that is better than the fate of the girl beside her. How do you tell someone that the only person they've ever loved, will ever love, is dead, and they won't ever be coming back? How do you explain to someone that in saving a world, they've consigned their heart to an eternity of loneliness? How do you tell the senshi of love that she'll never find it for herself?

"You seem troubled today."

For a moment, just as she meets her friend's crimson eyes, she is lost, drifting in a sea of probability, drowning in an ocean of a thousand alternate destinies. The moment passes.

"You know why," she whispers back.

Her friend just smiles back, but the smile is a sad one. "Yes," she replies. "I know."

But does, she wonders, does she really know? Because if she did, how can she stand it, how can she bear it? How can she see her future, a thousand shifting centuries of duty, and still remain sane?

She smiles, closes her eyes.

The others are chatting now, discussing the future but in more mundane terms. They are talking about children, about how many they want, about what they'll name them, and much to her mother's embarrassment, and to her chagrin, when they'll be having them.

She imagines.

She imagines a face. A face with elegant features, and eyes the colour of cobalt, framed with aqua hair. The face belongs to a child who will never be, to a dream, which a thousand years of technology and magic can never make real.

Her best friend laughs.

It is the most beautiful sound she's ever heard, and one she's never heard in the future. In the future, her best friend never speaks, never says a word. Silence alone accompanies her, ominous and deadly. A thousand years of misunderstanding and distrust have done what no enemy ever could, and given birth to the Destroyer.

And then she hears her mother's voice. She opens one eye and smiles. One day her mother will be a queen. She will stand, tall and elegant, perfect in her cool, austere beauty, revered for her wisdom, worshipped the world over as fount of peace and love. But for now, just for now she is something else entirely. She is a gangly teenager with a mouth full of ice cream and chocolate topping smeared around her lips. She is clumsy and she is klutzy and she is a billion other things that a queen should never be. She is perfect just the way she is.

"Hey, squirt, what are you thinking about?"

"Just thinking," she says, smiling a small smile, a real, genuine smile. "About how perfect everything is right now."

Author's Note

Yay! I've managed to churn another one of these things out. First things first, let me just say that Chibi-Moon is not my favourite character. The little spore ( to use the dubbed term ) tends to pop up whenever they have a plot hole to fix or need an enemy to fight. Be that as it may though, she is interesting. I've always wondered if Crystal Tokyo is so perfect, why she keeps coming back. I don't buy into the whole "to train" thing for even a second. No, I think she comes back for another reason, and this is my stab at that reason. As for Chibi-Usa / Hotarua… I don't think there's any of that in here, but if there is, well, I'll leave it up to you guys to decide, though I tend to lean against that ( mainly cause Saturn is like a billion times cooler than Chibi-Moon ).

As always, let me say, I live off feedback. So, drop me a line, tell me if you think it was good, bad, whatever, just say something ;;.

**To All Reviewers : **Thanks heaps for you continued support. You'll be happy to know that the hand is feeling a lot better than it was, and it was a lot easier typing this than it was typing the earlier part. As for doing one on Mamoru… let me think about it.


	11. Illusive Identity, Moon

Sailor Moon Reflections 10 : Moon 

The water pours down on her in the shower. It is hot, almost painfully so, and she twists, letting the sweet burn spread across her body. It hurts, but in a good way. It helps her forget the cold.

Slowly, she slumps to the floor, pulling her knees to her chest as the shower goes on and on. A couple more minutes, she thinks, and the she'll finish, but for now, she wants to be warm, she wants to hurt, she wants to be alive.

The seconds, minutes, hours, drag on and still she stays there, huddled beneath the water, whimpering quietly. She's burned the layout of the shower stall into her mind, every cracked tile, every crinkle in the curtain, and still, whenever she closes her eyes she goes back there. Back to the ice and the cold and the loneliness, back to her…

For a moment her eyes are perfectly focused, her perception heightened exquisitely by the pain as dark energy rips through her body. Then she hits the ice, shattering it upon impact, and hurling a cloud of crystalline frost into the air.

Pain.

Panic.

Fear.

Blood trickles from between her lips, and through the countless cuts on her uniform and onto the ice, turning it a dull crimson. Dimly, she is aware of other pains, her arm, her leg, her back, a maelstrom of broken bone and battered flesh.

High above her, wreathed in a storm of malevolent fury, her enemy readies another withering blast of negative energy. She is laughing at her, crimson lips pulled back into a sneer, pale face twisted with hate. Power, power enough to turn two thousand tonnes of ice into steam in a millionth of a second, crackles around her fingertips. It is over.

From her position on the ice, broken, defeated, all she can do is watch. The other can't help her now. They're gone, long gone. Separated, isolated, taken down, one by one, even her Prince is gone. She is, for the first time since the beginning, completely alone. How fitting.

The dark energy thunders through the air towards her. In the blink of an eye it strikes, and she feels everything ending, ending, ending…

Her costume is gone, consumed by a hail of ebony flame, and she can feel her skin and flesh, burning, boiling away as her bones turn to ash, and scatter like fine powder on the winds…

Only, only somehow she isn't dead.

As the darkness closes in, and she falls forever into the unearthly silence of death, she feels it. Something beyond white, beyond light, beyond anything, fills her, so bright that all she can see, all she can feel is an impossible radiance, holding her spirit, caressing her soul. It's healing her, saving her, changing her…

The explosion is enormous.

Her own power, the antithesis of darkness, billows outward, unfurling like a sail in the wind, a shockwave of rolling thunder rippling across the ice. She stands now, all trace of weakness, of fragile mortal frailty gone.

In place of a clumsy, empty-headed school girl, stands a Princess of Light, serene, tranquil, perfect. She has become a goddess of purity, sheathed in the blinding brilliance of her own soul.

An instant later, she strikes back at her enemy. Her power, the power of life, the power of purity, the power of light and love and hope, hurtles forward. It tears her enemy apart, rips through the darkness and death, and evil like a white-hot knife through butter…

"Honey," she turns, startled out of her memories as someone knocks on the door. It is her mother. "You've been in there a long time, are you all right?"

"Yes mom," she shouts back. "I'm fine." But she's not.

Later, she's up in her room, huddling beneath her blankets, hoping, praying that everything will go back to the way it used to be. She's afraid to sleep, afraid that maybe, once she closes her eyes, she'll be back there again. Remembering…

The ice is cold beneath her feet and she stops, pausing to look at her reflection. Something in her has changed, something has broken that cannot be mended. The innocence is gone from her eyes, replaced with a cool, almost cold serenity. Her cheeks seem almost gaunt now, regal in their shape and form, but somehow devoid of the easy-going warmth they used to have.

The power is still there, smouldering inside of her. It's almost like a living thing, raging away inside, looking for release, for the sweet, sweet thrill of use, like a drug. Her awareness now, is a thousand times what it used to be. She is bound to every soul on the planet, privy to every thought, every wish, every desire and it is frightening.

She doesn't want to know about the children crying on the street corner, or the woman whose husband won't stop hitting her. She doesn't want to see fields of mud, the remnants of a field torn to pieces by artillery, and she doesn't want to feel the sorrow of a billion weeping souls, mourning everything and nothing all at once.

She just wants to be normal. She just wants to worry about the next school project, or the next movie, or the next arcade game or the next…

She wakes, without even really realising that she was ever asleep. Her eyes, wide and afraid catch the glint of the mirror by her bed and she draws back, afraid, a scream dying on her lips. Slowly, she brings one hand up to her cheek, tracing the path of her tears.

Who is she, really?

A schoolgirl?

A senshi?

Or is she just the girl who died so that a goddess, a queen, could be born.

She's crying because right now, right now, she isn't sure. Because just for a moment, it wasn't blonde hair she'd seen in the mirror.

It was silver.

Author's Note

Yay! I've finally got another out. Let me start by saying that this will probably be edited extensively. I'm not too happy with how it came out, but I really wanted to put it out there and let everyone have a look at it, because really, Moon is one of the deepest characters, if you look hard enough. For me, I've always found it interesting how different she is in the future. It makes me wonder, did Usagi die so that Serenity could live? And yes, this is set after Beryl.

As always, I live off feedback. So, drop me a line, tell me what you think. Was it good, bad, whatever, just say ;;.

**To All Reviewers : **Thanks a ton for being along for the ride with this series, your support has meant a lot to me, a real lot. You've made it worth writing. That said I have a surprise for you all : I'm not done yet! And what's even better is that I have something else, another project if you will, in the works. Till later…


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